


Nothing Beside(s) Remains

by My_floaty_coaty_boy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Ghost Dean Winchester, Ghost Sam Winchester, Impala, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Witch Castiel, kind of, temporarily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:45:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_floaty_coaty_boy/pseuds/My_floaty_coaty_boy
Summary: Dean Winchester and his brother Sam are monster hunters.Sorry--they WERE monster hunters.Now? they're ghosts, and they find themselves teaming up with an unlikely companion to  bring down their biggest competitor yet:The one who murdered them.





	Nothing Beside(s) Remains

Dean Winchester remembered things.

If someone were to ask after his earliest memory, he’d smile nostalgically and duck his head before answering that he remembered being four years old and playing catch with his uncle, Bobby Singer, when the sleek black 1967 Chevrolet Impala belonging to his father rolled up on the driveway safely cradling his parents and his brand new baby brother Sam, just a week old and out of the hospital. He’d tell the tale of how for the first month he’d refused to leave little baby Sammy’s side, and when the infant bawled for something, he’s be the first to try and soothe him.

In reality, his earliest memory is one even older than that. It is one he largely kept to himself; a private little whisper of something from a year before. His mother, Mary Winchester, bouncing him on her hip softly and humming ‘ _ Hey Jude _ ’, by the Beatles. The skin around her blue eyes was crinkled in a smile, a lock of her blonde hair in his loosening grip as he tried, and failed, to resist his bedtime. 

He remembered the  _ thump-thump-thump _ sound Sammy made when he was two-and-three-quarters and fell down the stairs and how Mary had yelped in panic before running from the study to inspect the source of the noise, only to find six-year-old Dean hugging Sam tightly and telling him that he was OK. Dean remembered the feel of Sam’s soft, slightly curly hair against his cheek, his pudgy fists clinging to Dean’s t-shirt as it steadily got wetter from Sam’s tears. Sam was screaming, but Dean held him nonetheless until Mary took them both in her arms and inspected the bruise already forming on Sam’s tummy. He remembers how that night John Winchester had taken them to get ice cream as a treat because they’d been so brave.

Dean remembered John Winchester, their father, all but throwing Sam into his arms and telling them to go outside as their house burned to the ground, taking Mary with them. He remembered nearly leaving Sam out by the Impala to run back inside, and he remembered the stone grip of his father pulling him back towards his little brother. He remembered hearing his mother screaming as she died in pain and alone surrounded by the ashes of the home she’d fought so hard to build. 

He recalled how, after that, John had become obsessed with hunting down the monster that started the fire. He’d taught Dean how to use a pistol at the ripe old age of ten, and instructing Bobby to make Dean practice every day, just in case he had to protect Sam. He remembered the purr of the Impala as it drove away and he remembered that day Bobby had brought them both to the park instead, to just be little kids.

He remembered when he saw his first supernatural being: a vampire, with many fangs lining it’s gums and it’s breath that reeked of blood. He remembered the look of disappointment on John’s face after the older man had beheaded it right in front of him. It had been his twelfth birthday.

After that, John would take him on hunts every now and again, much to Bobby’s chagrin. His first kill was a werewolf, and he remembered the recoil of the gun in his hands and how the silver bullet flew too fast for him to see, right into the woman’s sternum. He remembers the tremble of her lip and the tears in her eyes and the growing red stain on her shirt before she fell. He remembered how he could think of nothing else on the car ride back and how he couldn’t sleep for weeks without dreaming of her children, now motherless--just like he was.

When he was thirteen he had snuck into a scary movie to prove that he was cool to Barry Jenkins in his geography class, and how, even though he’d killed monsters like the ones on screen before, he still had to call Bobby to pick him up from the movie theatre because he was too scared to walk back in the dark.

He remembered when Sam had found out about the monsters. How after that fight John and Sam didn’t talk for a week, and how Dean was stuck between them.

He remembered how after that John began to leave them on their own for a month at a time with barely enough money for food, and how every night he’d go to sleep wishing to hear the slide of familiar tyres over gravel and the footsteps of his father coming home.

He remembered stealing Christmas presents for Sam from the nice house a block away from their motel room, and how when Sam found out he never touched the comics again.

He remembered Sam’s first hunt when he’d been thirteen and how the boy had hesitated when faced by the spirit of that little girl so John had been the one to burn her little brown bear instead. How he began to crave the times when John left them alone in a motel room just so there wouldn’t be any fighting. 

He remembered learning to drive in the Impala, and eventually teaching Sam the same, both of them carving their initials into the door while the lego Dean shoved in the vents rattled against the hot summer sun.

He remembered the feeling of ice on his spine as the shifter circled him, and the realisation that John had put him there as bait, without weapons to save him and the uncertainty and fear as the shifter raised it’s knife to bring the chill to his bones permanently and how he’d closed his eyes to try and remember Sam, and their mother, and--

The shot, and the weight of the shifter’s dying body falling over him, lifeless eyes staring into his own.

Dean couldn’t remember a lot after that: The days and the hunts all blurred together, kill this, hunt that, save them, drive away, lather, rinse, repeat. He remembered the nights they couldn’t afford a hotel, instead sleeping in the car, John in the front, the boys crammed in the back.

He remembered lying on the hood with them and watching the stars.

He remembered the day when the letter came, marked for Samuel Winchester, from Stanford Finance dept., John had kicked him to the curb, yelling about how Sam didn’t care if Mary’s killer was ever caught.

And how two years later, when John had gone missing, it was Dean who pulled Sam back into the hunting life, away from his studies, his girlfriend, his life.

Which is probably why he blamed himself for this, Dean Winchester’s final memory, five years later:

Leaning against the sleek black 1967 Chevrolet Impala, still in incredible condition even though the night they’d found him, John had rammed her into a tree.

He remembers refusing to leave his baby brother’s side as their blood mixed together on the gravel. He felt his vocal cords moving, humming, only just hearing his own shaky rendition of ‘ _ Hey Jude’ _ over the sound of the waves on the shore a few feet away.

Where is wasn’t matted with blood, Sam’s hair was soft, and a bit curly, like it had been when he was little. He held his brother’s hand against the slash on his stomach, even though the knife had gone straight through Sam’s gut and now there was a growing red stain on their t-shirts. He just pulled Sam closer, like he’d done the night of the fire, except this time it was they who were going to die. The monster that killed them polished his knife and sneered before turning and walking away. Dean hadn’t the life left within him to stop him. He was too busy remembering. His home is with him: He has the Impala, he has his brother, and he thinks he is ready. His eyes slide closed, and he hears the moment Sam stops breathing. Something in his chest collapses at that, and since the moment they’d brought him home from the hospital he’d  known he could never live without that kid.

 

~*~~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Castiel needed that car. 

He’s always had a bit of a love for classic cars, and ever since his brother Gabriel had labelled his 1978 Lincoln Continental a ‘pimpmobile’, he’d been looking for a change. He’d seen the midnight-black 1967 Impala with it’s shiny rims and it’s polished windshield and, more importantly, its low, low price, even for a second--or even third--hand vehicle. But that wasn’t what made him stop, not really. There was something about the car, an energy that drew him to it. It was so strong that as urban witch, he was unused to it. It held lives. Entire souls. Whoever had the car last poured themselves into this car. He needed it. 

When he asked about why the Impala was so cheap, the salesman winced. “Oh, well, the last owners were...well, um...they were found with the car.” He floundered.

“‘Found with the car? Meaning... _ what _ , exactly?”

“Their, uh...Their  _ bodies _ were found with it.” He mumbled. “We have to disclose that, but i’m afraid I cannot tell you any more details.” Well, that explained the strength of the energies.

“Still, the price is so low. Would that really put anyone off?” Castiel didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when he could use a conductor with that much energy, but he did want to know what he was getting into--the energy may have been powerful, but...was it  _ safe _ ?

“Apparently not, but we’ve had several buyers return the vehicle. It’s in near-perfect condition, aside from a weird rattling in the vents and some small chips on the inside of the door, but at this price you’d be an idiot to refuse!”

While Castiel disapproved of this particular sale tactic, he did like the car. It called to him; he felt drawn to it. He needed it.

“I’ll take it.” He sighed, pulling out his wallet. “Do you take check?”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean remembered things.

He remembered dying, as real as anything. 

Which was why he was surprised to wake up. 

When his eyes opened, he knew instantly where he was: the familiar beige leather of the bench seat in front of him, although he hadn’t sat in the back for years. He couldn’t feel the cushioned seat below him, but at the same time, he could. He remembered what it felt like; his body told him he felt it. The rearview mirror had been moved.

He felt his chest moving with some muscle memory of breath, but he didn’t need to breathe. But he kept breathing, because if he didn’t, he just might start freaking out. 

He glanced out the window, trying to work out where he was. Maybe he’d dreamed it. Maybe he was still dreaming. 

He heard Sam before he saw him. His brother’s gasp drew his attention to the seat next to him and sure enough there was Sam, who definitely hadn’t been there two seconds ago.

“D...Dean?” Sam was just as confused as him, then. 

“Sammy. I--”

“We died. I remember dying. What...what happened?” Sam’s brain was already in overdrive, and to be honest, so was Dean’s. They had both heard rumours of people bringing loved-ones back from the dead, with the help of crossroads demons, for a price. But everyone they knew was either dead or didn’t give enough of a rat’s ass to pay the demon what it would ask for. So...how were they alive?

“We’re at a gas station.” Dean followed Sam’s gaze out his window and to the Gas-’n-Sip. The building was squat, and dirty, just like every other Gas-’n-Sip ever. There was another car, a red Honda. The shop itself looked empty until he saw the clerk move around from stacking shelves to help a dark-haired man at the counter. Probably the owner of the Honda. 

Dean grasped at the door handle without a second thought, eager to get in the driver’s seat and get somewhere more familiar.

His hand fell right through the handle.

He was stunned into shock for a moment, staring at the half of his hand that he could see, not in the door and  _ holy shit my hand isn’t real i’m not real what the fuck is going-- _

The driver door opened and the dark-haired guy from the Gas-’n-Sip slipped inside, sighing heavily and starting the engine. He met Dean’s eyes in the mirror for half a second, then did a double-take and yelped loudly, turning to face them.

“Who are you and what the  _ fuck  _ are you doing in my car?!” He yelled, eyes flitting nervously between the brothers.

“ _ Your _ car?! Baby’s  _ mine _ ! What’s she doin’ with you?!” Dean glared at the man.

“I bought her--it!” The man replied. “I bought it from--what the fuck is happening with your hand?!” The guy’s (very blue) eyes widen and Dean looks back at his own hand, still in the door. 

“Uhm...I’m…” Dean trails off, unsure of what to say.

“I think we’re ghosts.” Sam spoke up, and the other two looked at him. “We remember...well, dying. And now we’re here.”

“ _ Ghosts _ ? That’s impossible.” 

“Oh, yeah? Then how would you explain  _ this,  _ other than weird ghost hoodoo?” Dean waved his hand around in the car door. 

Sam, thankfully, had some tact. “We know it’s a lot to take in, but...well, we used to hunt ghosts. When we were alive, I mean.”

“Ghosts an’ other stuff.” Dean added, shivering at the sensation of his hand removing itself from the car.

“‘Other stuff?” The dark-haired man probed.

“Yeah; werewolves, vampires, a coupl’a demons.” Dean shrugged. “Guess that’s done now, though, huh?”

“So, your souls are tied to the car.” The man sighed, resting his head in his hands. “I wondered why the energy was so strong. Because the souls are still here.”

“How would you know?” Sam’s brow furrowed, and the man met his eyes, his expression unreadable.

“I...I’m a witch.”

“ _ What _ ? Oh, no way, pal, no witch is drivin’ my Baby!” Dean glared, visibly bracing himself for a fight.

“I’m not the kind of witch hunters would go after. I just...get energy from the city and...I make honey.”

“ _ Honey _ ?” The brothers questioned in sync.

“...I like bees. The honey has healing qualities. It’s hardly  _ dangerous _ .” The man scowled, blue eyes narrowing slightly.

After a few seconds, Sam huffed a sigh. “Well. I’m Sam. This is Dean.”

“Castiel.” The dark-haired man proffered. “I’m sorry for your loss, I suppose? I’m sorry, I’ve never spoken to ghosts before.”

“Neither. We usually just...burned ‘em. It’s weird to be on the other side.”

“A...listen, I don’t want to sound...harsh, but are you planning on moving on? When I bought the car, they told me the last owners had died. I had no idea you were still using it.”

Dean snorted and exchanged a glance with Sam. “Yeah, neither did we. We’ll have to move on; The longer ghosts hang around, the weaker their hold on reality is. They become vengeful spirits.”

“Well, what would help you move on?”

“We could burn the car.” Sam supplied, to Dean’s scandalised gasp.

“Never! We’re not hurting Baby!”

“You really love this car that much?” Castiel asked disbelievingly.

“Yes!” 

“Yes.” The tones were different, but Castiel could tell this was a question Dean and Sam had a lot.

“Well then, what else do we do?”

“We could gank the guy that ganked us.” Dean shrugged. “We can’t go vengeful if there’s no one to take vengeance on. The sooner we do that, the easier it should be to move on.”

Castiel rubbed his forehead with his hand, slumping into the driver’s seat. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can do that without my assistance?”

“Uh, yeah. We were hunters our entire lives, we don’t need the help of some  _ witch-- _ ” Dean, who had tried to lean against the window sill, fell through the door again. “ _ Fuck _ ! Why are we only fallin’ through the doors?!”

“You warded pretty much everything last time you rebuilt her, Dean, the doors are probably the only reason we could get in here in the first place.” 

“Shit. So unless something is warded, we’re just gonna go right through it?” Dean hissed. Sam shrugged and turned to Castiel.

“Maybe we could use your help.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“So...who killed you?” Castiel asked, glancing at Dean in the corner of his eye. Dean just shifted in his seat, so instead, Sam answered.

“Uh, about that...we’re not...we don’t exactly know.” 

“How can you not know?!” The witch demanded, taking his eyes off the road to glance in the rearview at the younger brother.

“Well, we were in the middle of something, and it’s not like we had a shortage of enemies.”

Castiel sighed. “Fine. OK. So...we’ll go back to my home. I can contact some covens that owe me favours. We can get people on the lookout for anyone you think might have been the one to kill you. I’m sorry--is that rude? Am I supposed to bring up the whole... _ death _ thing?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t think there are rules. I mean, we  _ are _ dead.”

“Wait, wait, you have covens that owe you favours? How does that work? I thought you guys pretty much kept to your own groups.” Dean’s tone still held some kind of disgust, and Cas rolled his eyes heavily.

“I’ve been around a long time, Dean. As a consequence, I’m powerful. If a coven needs my power for a spell--if it’s for good reason, of course-- then i’ll lend it for a future favour. I have a few to call in.”

“And you’d spend them on us?” Sam said, and the same time Dean murmured,

“‘Cause that’s not shady at all.”

Castiel decided not to be bated, and instead answered Sam. “Of course. You need to move on, and I have little use for the favours of covens on my own. I don’t do a lot of coven-worthy spells. I only sell the odd cures or give the occasional tarot reading”

“So...You’re a freelance witch?” Dean smirked.

“...Yes, I suppose so.” Castiel smiled at the older Winchester, completely ignoring any insult that might have been in the question. Any further conversation was stunted quickly when Castiel pulled into a parking space outside a stout, redbrick block of apartments.

“You live here?”

“Yes, unfortunately witchcraft doesn’t pay too well.” Castiel sighed, killing the engine and removing himself from the car. The Winchesters followed, unrestricted by the physical barriers of the doors.

“Can you get inside?” Castiel wondered, intrigued when Sam moved to step up into the building.

“Huh. I guess.” 

“Hmm. ‘ _ Weird ghost hoodoo _ ’, indeed.” Castiel smiled softly and made his way to a blue door, the only painted door in the corridor, marked with a swirly, hand-painted ‘4’. “Wait out here. I have some wards I must remove before you can comfortably come inside.”

“Wards?” Dean raised his eyebrows, fishing for further explanation, but Castiel just waved him off.

“Oh, please, none of that. I’ve been around for a while, and have consequently collected some little infamy. I have enemies, I have friends, most of which are not human, and I don’t want any of them coming in here uninvited. For you to be safe here, I have to change some things.” When the door finally unlocked, Castiel shuffled inside, door shutting resolutely before the brothers could see inside. After a few moments, the door opened again and Castiel’s smiling face greeted them. “Come in!” 

 

The witch’s home was small, and busy. Books and potted plants of all kinds lay on every surface; loose leafs of paper covered with multi-coloured scrawls, some balled up and in the trash, seemed to be Castiel’s way of keeping notes. 

“Sorry about the mess--I was in the middle of...something,”

“‘ _ Something _ ’?” Dean prompted, brow raised suspiciously. 

“Yes. Something. Now: Who would want to--and succeed in--killing you both?” 

Sam snorted. “How long have you got? We didn’t exactly have a shortlist of our greatest enemies.” 

Castiel hummed and bit his lip. “Well, I could try...I mean, I don’t know how well it would work on ghosts, but I could whip up a quick memory spell, and we could see what--”

“Woah, woah, no  _ way _ are you usin’ any hoodoo on me. I know what you people use in your spells--all baby bones and puppy noses, an’ I--”

Castiel rolled his eyes hard enough to break something, and spoke over Dean. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was harsh, and Dean shut up almost instantly, much to his chagrin. “I’m not a savage, Dean. Unlike those  _ heathens  _ who get their magic from demons or Hell, I’m a natural-born witch: seventh son of the seventh son from a family older than you can imagine. I draw my magic from sources you couldn’t even comprehend, and I don’t take kindly to prejudices, so if you could refrain from making assumptions about me, I’d be very grateful. Shall we start, or must you debate over my abilities much longer?”

That shut Dean up, and Castiel busied himself fetching pots and jars of dried plants and colourful liquids, measuring them on a heavy metal scale, the kind with balance weights on one side and a bowl on the other. He pushed paper and books off the stove and began to concoct whatever potion he’d promised, wafting his hands over the mixture and conjuring little blue sparks. 

“Cas, what...actually are you doing?” Sam watched the witch move around his space, his element. 

“I’m mixing a memory potion, hopefully that will allow us to see the moment of your death--I’m assuming you both remember  _ being...removed from mortality _ ?” 

“I do. You fell unconscious pretty quick.” Dean grunted, mostly to Sam. 

Castiel nodded and put what looked like a teabag, but a shimmery gold colour, into the closest mug of his mismatched collection--a mustard yellow one with a honeycomb pattern--before pouring the boiling, swirling mixture over the top, pressing the bag against the side of the cup with an old-looking spoon to strain it quickly. 

Then he went to the fridge and pulled out a can of whipped cream, a generous helping of which he piled on top. Then, he pulled a red chip from a bag that looked like a dried chili. 

He placed them in front of Dean, and hissed a few words in broken syllables in a language none of them fully understood. The objects flickered, in and out of the physical space and into the weird in-the-middle space Sam and Dean occupied. “Eat the chip. Drink that after.”

“Woah, what is it?”

Castiel huffed impatiently. “The red thing focusses your mind, and opens it for me to see your memory as well. I use them to help remember where I left something. Chew it and swallow. The drink is for the aftertaste.”

Dean’s expression was skeptical, but he chewed the chip and gagged at the bitter, spicy taste. He chugged as much of the drink as he could in one and bit bick the dizzy feeling that had come over him.

The witch murmured a few more weird syllables and placed his hand on Dean’s head, resting it impossibly solidly on the ghost.

 

Suddenly, Dean was back, in front of his car, Sam resting heavily on him as their assailant walked away. The blood rushing through his veins and out onto the dirt made him dizzy, the air rushing out his lungs made him lightheaded. The hand on his shoulder was a heavy new addition, and he followed the witch’s gaze to the figure. Suddenly, everything paused: the blood, the figure, the wind against their faces. The witch squinted minutely and suddenly everything was moving backwards and Dean thought he was going to faint because the breath was being pulled and shoved back and forth between him and the space around him and he had more blood than he did a second ago and--

The witch gasped and the memory dissipated. “ _ Oh.” _

“What? What?!” Sam looked between them as Castiel sat across from them, eyes not shifting from Dean’s.

“I...knew him.”

“Who?!” Sam said, at the same time Dean said, 

“You  _ knew  _ him?” 

“He...he was part of my coven, we worked together, he... _Michael_ saved my life.”

“...well,  _ fuck _ .” Dean sighed.

This was going to be a very long hunt.

**Author's Note:**

> comment, tell me what you think! I will be writing more of this, but i have like 7 million WIPS atm so bear with me


End file.
